


Heart in a Cage

by missameliep



Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29409921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missameliep/pseuds/missameliep
Summary: After being injured during a sparring session, Arwen learns the other elf from the group might find her company more than tolerable.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow)
Kudos: 4





	Heart in a Cage

**Author's Note:**

> * All characters belong to Pixelberry.  
> * English is not my first language.  
> * This is my submission to @bladesappreciationweek - Day 1: Tyril  
> * Based on these two prompts from @omgjasminesimone : 8. A calm moment in the midst of a perilous journey and 11. Tending to one another’s wounds  
> * Warning: Mentions of BLOOD and description of INJURY. Readers’ discretion advised.

A white blanket covers the forest. 

The sunlight, filtering through the leaves of the towering trees, creates an almost dreamlike atmosphere. A last moment of peacefulness at the improvised encampment, while Arwen’s companions are still sleeping. Huddled, they try to find elsewhere the heat the night stole from the world.

After Arwen managed to soundless crawl out of the bedroll and rise to her feet, she immediately misses the warmth radiating from the elf sleeping by her side. No matter how much she enjoys being so close to him, longing for his deep voice to be the first thing she hears in the morning and for the day this sleeping arrangement will be not due to the perils of the journey or convenience - for him at least - there is no time to spare. Soon, this white, dense and cold fog will dissipate, the world will reclaim its multitude of colors and everyone else will be up and ready for another long and exhausting day.

Arwen gathers her cloak and satchel, then walks as quietly as possible over the layer of fallen leaves, meandering through a narrow dirty path. 

Nose in the air, the smell of dampness fills her lungs, and she smiles. 

Following the soft murmurs down the path, it does not take long to find the river. Calling it a river is definitely an exaggeration. The silvery stream is much narrower than the one they crossed yesterday, flowing in such an unhurried pace, that it is almost impossible to believe that perhaps a few miles ahead, combining forces with other equally insignificant streams, it will grow stronger and louder on its way to the sea, until it becomes part of the immense estuary she saw when Imtura’s ship came ashore.

In a way, the idea makes her think about the small group of people determined to fight the darkness that threatens this world. Some of them already forces of nature on their own. How can she forget Imtura’s vigor? The orc’s solid muscles like the rocks that endure the punches of the waves day in and out? But others, like herself, an aspiring adventurer, without proper training or a special skill, need to learn and make herself stronger along the way.

Arwen removes the cloak, carefully folding it, then places it over a boulder. Examining the stream and its clear waters, the greyish hues of the submerged pebbles, it’s impossible to an elf her size to submerge and bath. Not that she would have the time or the will to dive without the sun high in the sky chasing away the chill anyway. Untying the knot on her dress, she lowers it to her waist, and grimacing, she manages to pull the undershirt over her head. The thorn on the fabric at the back and the bloodstains are souvenirs from the sparring session with Imtura the night before. She barely sees the wound on her left shoulder blade. The tips of her fingers move over the dry blood and the cut, and she flinches when they touch it.

_I didn’t break any bone. That’s good enough._

She kneels and her hands sink into the clear and cold waters, rippling the still surface. She washes her hands, then takes a sip from the water pooling in her palm. Her hand submerges again, wetting one of the pieces of cloth from her satchel. A shiver runs down her spine when the ice-cold water streams down her back, but she draws in a sharp breath and focus on what must be done.

Arwen’s hand works fast, cleaning the wound from dried blood and removing the paste she applied during night watch duty, while the others slept.

Considering the position, it is hard to clean the area and almost impossible to reach the entire thing without help. If she were home, Kade would chide her for not asking for help. But she is no longer at Riverbend and, because of her and her dreams of adventure, neither is her brother. And in this quest, the last thing she wants is anyone’s pity.

When she bends down to reach for her satchel, a snapping sound reaches her ears. A broken twig, perhaps. And her head jerks back, while she carefully listens to her surroundings, wondering if it is a large animal coming for water or for her. 

More steps. Not from an animal, that’s for sure. A hand over the dagger, though it would not be wise to engage into a fight given her current condition, which would provide any adversary too much of an edge.

The footsteps are light and carefully paced, but not enough to suppress the distinctive clink of the armor’s metal, which rings soft like the tiniest bells. She lets out a relieved breath. Were she not an elf, perhaps she would not acknowledge any of this nor the lingering woody scent that exudes from him, like an aura that announces him long before he makes himself present, like the smell of the early spring rains.

The steps grow louder and closer, and her fingers uncurl releasing the grasp around the hilt of the dagger. Her brows furrow. _It is unlikely that he would be looking for me. But why would he follow this path? The stream is so much closer down the other path…_

Her attention returns to the herbs and to the task at hand. A grey pebble presses the herbs once and again. Quick. Quicker. Smashing and turning everything into a paste.

Even though, Arwen is probably the only other person Tyril tolerates the most in the group besides Nia, she cannot imagine a reason for him to be following her.

 _Perhaps he is going to bath and needed privacy_. The idea brings heat to her cheeks. Willingly Tyril will not disrobe in front of her, even if her mind has already undressed him countless times.

Clink. Clink. Clink. Clinking closer and closer.

 _He must know I’m here._ _Perhaps something happened at the encampment._ Her hands pause. _There is no urgency in his pace,_ she ponders, _not a sign of bad news._

Arwen does not have to turn around to know when he is finally standing behind her.

His boot scuffs the dirty path and Tyril halts a few meters from her. There is a moment of hesitation, possibly because of her state of undress. Then he takes another two steps back and clears his throat, announcing his presence, and giving her time to cover herself, would she rather not be the object of his gaze.

But she does not cover herself or move.

Neither does he move.

After a moment, she peeks over her shoulder and finds Tyril standing on the path, his expression as serious as always. Their eyes do not meet. His head is bowed, and his face is partially covered by the long black hair.

“You got hurt,” he states. His tone is heavy, and she does not know if it carries reproach or a mere observation. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference.

“It happens, especially if your sparring partner is an orc strong as an entire army,” Arwen says breezily, and a low chuckle rumbles in her chest. Now she can even laugh at it, something unthinkable last night. There was only pain after Imtura’s axe connected with the sword, pulling her backwards like she weighted nothing. The fall right upon the jagged rocks left bruises, including in her ego. Imtura laughed at the sight of her splayed on the ground; then apologized once it took longer for the elf to rise. But she did get up and refused to admit she was hurt, even after Mal and Nia inquired about it.

“Better the shoulder than my head, right?” Arwen jests, but Tyril does not laugh.

“Why did you not say so?” he asks. “That you got hurt, I mean.”

“Blame it on the rush from the sparring, I suppose,” she lies through her teeth, and flashes a cocky smile at him.

Arwen knows better than to lie to a companion, specially one who has such strong opinions about trust, but she does not want to look weak or fragile. Especially not to him…

“It’s nothing,” she insists on shrugging off the injury, “Just a scratch…”

“From where I’m standing, that cut seems deeper than a mere scratch.”

 _Is it concern on his tone?_ Arwen forces herself not to smile, and her lips roll inside her mouth. Instinctively her tongue moistens her lips, then, she looks straight at him and smirks.

“Since you’ve got a privileged view of my injury, would you be so kind to help me with this?” she asks, holding up a piece of clean cloth, and pulls her hair over the other shoulder. “I cannot reach down there.”

Tyril doesn’t respond at her suggestion, his expression remains impassive, except for the eyes that trail down the bruise for a second, the lavender hue that tints his cheeks and the slightest twitch in his lips.

Excruciatingly long seconds pass, and Arwen is about to resume the cleaning herself, when, without a word, Tyril shifts and comes a little closer. His eyes fixed on hers, as if afraid to look elsewhere. The smile that brightens her face encourages him to cross the remaining distance and kneel beside her.

Tyril looks her straight in the eye. A rare occurrence, specially this close. His clear blue eyes are so bright that she supposes they could hold entire galaxies within them. And she could spend a lifetime learning about each and every single one of them.

Unintentionally, his long fingers brush hers so lightly as he takes the wet cloth from her hand and, nonetheless the fleeting touch, his cheeks darken but he does not look away. Arwen does not avert her gaze either, feeling every fiber of her being burn for him. 

_If only one of us would be brave enough to take the leap…_

The cloth is soaked in water, but Tyril’s hand stops midair, and he lowers his gaze, probably inspecting the wound. Or perhaps mustering the courage to touch her. The cloth is pressed gently against her back. She doesn’t mind the cold water running down her back this time, and she only looks over her shoulder to be sure the water hasn’t become steam.

“There will be no need to stitch,” he says, rubbing the cloth smoothly over the wound, while his other hand traces its edges. A touch careful and gentle that makes her wonder how his touch would feel tracing paths on her body under different circumstances.

She swallows hard and forces a smile. “Good. I wouldn’t be able to do it, anyway.”

“I would assist you if necessary.”

“Thank you. That is truly kind of you, Tyril.” His name rolls from her tongue, and he looks back at her. There is something written in his gaze. Perhaps verses awaiting to be proclaimed. Perhaps parts of a sonnet they compose together. A second later, whatever there was in his eyes, it’s gone. And he lowers his eyes.

“You need not to thank me,” he says, his tone is serious again, eyes focused on the task. “Since we are on this quest together, every one of us must be in excellent shape to face what waits for us.”

Swallowing her disappointment, she nods and looks away.

“What is that?” he asks, pointing at the paste lying beside her, and Arwen is grateful for the new topic.

She explains about the herbs and tells him about the healer at Riverbend who taught her all she knew.

“Your curiosity is refreshing,” he says quietly.

“Is it?” she asks, and he confirms with a nod, while taking the small stone mortar in his hands. “I’ve heard too many times the exact opposite…”

“Were you born in Undermount, you would flourish. It is expected that one would learn all that is about all the realms.”

He dips his long fingers in the paste and examines it.

“How is it over there?”

“Different from Riverbend and everything you’ve seen at the lands of men, I assure you.” Diverting again from her question, his entire attention is now on the paste. “Would you want my help to apply it?” Arwen confirms and his fingertips gently rub the green paste on her skin. 

His fingers are gentle, leaving a trail of goosebumps she cannot conceal. And once again, her mind wanders. Her cheeks are probably rosier now and she’s thankful mindreading is not one of the elves skills or else Tyril would be scandalized.

A low hiss escapes her lips, and she flinches when the herbs start to prickle her skin. Without a word, one of his hands holds hers while the other lays upon the wound. His skin radiates an unexplainable kind of warmth that soothes her. And she closes her eyes, transported to the bakery at Riverbend. This feels like the insides of the breads prepared at the bakery’s oven, that Arwen and Kade would break in the morning, her fingers sinking into the crumb, releasing the heat in a mist. Just like Tyril’s hand. What an odd yet calming sensation.

When her eyes flutter open, Tyril is already looking at her. And he’s merely a hairsbreadth from her. _When did he get so close?_ Her heart accelerates while his half-closed eyes studies her features as if committing to memory every detail about her, from the way locks of hair fall to the side of her face to the curve of her upper lip.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks, and his voice is softer now and welcoming.

“No,” she replies quickly. With the rush of emotions, she cannot be certain.

“Excellent.”

His hand remains enveloping hers, and in a bold move she intwines her fingers with his. Tyril looks down surprised but does not pull his hand away. Somehow, this feels more intimate than almost every interaction Arwen had with members of the opposite sex in her life, and those certainly involved a lot more than holding hands… _Does he feel it too?_ she wonders, observing the way he still looks at their joined hands with a sort of amazement while his thumb dare caress her skin.

Her lips part to allow her tongue to speak about what her mind is full of, but high-pitched squeals echo from the forest. Screeches and flutters of wings disrupt the silence. The two are shaken from their haze and survey the surroundings. Their faces dart to the direction of the sounds of hoofs hitting against the dirty. Finally, three wild pigmy boars emerge from the woods about 10 feet away from them, running and splashing water while traversing the stream to the other margin. Someone is running. Oblivious to the two elves and the moment the hunt interrupted, Mal darts from the forest and crosses the stream as well.

Tyril stands up and mutters something in elfish under his breath. Arwen assumes his words might be a little harsher than the usual complains about Mal being a loud little man if he switched language… What she is positive about is the frustration in his expression before he moves away from her. The softness is gone entirely, replaced by the same grave expression he usually keeps. In a moment, his heart is back in its cage, and she sighs.

“The wound –” Tyril stops himself when his voice falters and clears his throat. “The wound will be better tomorrow. You will see.”

Smiling, she thanks him for the help.

After washing the cloth and putting the mortar back on the satchel, she looks up at Tyril, standing in the same place and staring at her folded clothes.

“Will you need help with your clothes?” his question is barely above a whisper, lacking the steadiness of his usual graver tone, but she prefers it this way.

Even though she is more than capable of doing that and would much rather have him stripping her off the remaining of her clothes, she accepts his help, hoping this could stir something inside him.

“We should go back to the others,” he says, and his voice is commanding again. He places the cloak over her shoulders, and while he buttons it, they stand face to face and she eyes him carefully, realization dawning on her that whatever brought him to the stream had been forgotten.

“You never said why you came here?”

“Oh.” His surprise escapes his mouth, rounding his lips, and he looks away. “I came to fill my canteen.”

He takes a step back and his raven hair sways. Some locks fall to his face, covering his eyes, and she suspects it was done intentionally.

“And are you not going to fill it?” she insists, with a teasing smile, already knowing the answer.

The elf looks back, lips pursed in the thinnest line, and he takes his time to reply, “I failed to bring it with me.”

“You should’ve been really thirsty,” she quips and catches a glimpse of the purple that bloomed in his cheeks before he turned his back to her and marched towards the path, clearly uncomfortable with the current conversation.

Stifling a giggle on the back of her hand, she watches him with amusement for a moment longer. The muffled sound of her merriment draws his attention, and he casts a look over his shoulder.

“I am coming with you,” she says, her voice still carrying laughter, and trails behind him. 

Surprisingly, he slows his pace, allowing her to catch up with him. In comfortable silence they walk side by side. Both lost in thoughts. Hers are all about him; and his, judging by the flush in his beautiful skin whenever he steals a glance at the young elf walking beside him, are all about her as well. 


End file.
